One More Foolish Thing
by Llassah
Summary: Postwar fic. Oneshot. 'Sometimes, when he drank, he would cry and couldn’t stop' Sometimes even the saviour can't be saved.


Sometimes, when he drank, he would cry and couldn't stop. Sometimes he stuffed his fist in his mouth in time to stop the screams that ripped his throat until he spat blood onto the floor. Sometimes he didn't. Sometimes he would remember to take Dreamless Sleep potion before he passed out. And when he didn't? He'd scream some more, and the nightmares would carry over to the daytime, until he found himself seeing their faces in the mirror, hearing their voices in the silences, until all he could be was whimper.

He would go one for weeks on end, drinking whatever he could, steadily working at his own destruction until his breath was hoarse, his eyes sandy, his mind barely functioning, his mind functioning even less. Then, just when he was on the brink of death, his body and its innate magic would pull him right back to health. The famous Harry fucking Potter accelerated healing meant he would wake up one morning with a feeling of utter defeat, and little memory of the lost time. Then, for a few more months, he would drag himself through the pretence. He would smile, and nod, and look at the faces that remind him of what he lost.

But now? Now the dreams creep into his lucid times, and not even the walls he has erected around his mind can shut them out. He needs something, anything to make them stop. Whatever it does to him, he doesn't want those fucking visions, whatever it does to his memory, however many tremors it causes, he doesn't care. He just wants to sink into comfortable apathy once more.

So he walks into one of the potion shops on Knockturn Alley, knowing what he needs is dark, too dark for the Ministry, the bunch of brainless fucking sycophants that they are, with their interrogations, and their veritaserum, and their potions, that turn you inside out and back to front, and make you want to scratch your veins out, just for some sodding useless information he didn't tell them anyway-

Calm. He needs calm. His control is worn down enough as it is, the last thing he needs is to lose his temper.

The shop is dark. Bottles and jars stand in rows on the shelves; some are plants, some are-

They horrify him. Even after what he saw, what he did, they still horrify him. He's almost glad that he can still be shocked. He almost leaves.

"What do you want?"

The voice is familiar. There is a man standing behind the counter, and Harry walks towards him. Closer, closer, until he can too the tall slim frame, the back hair, the eyes like tunnels, the hooked nose-

"Snape." His voice is flat. He has no anger to spare for this man. He gave up any chance he might have had at revenge. He regrets it, almost. He had stared into his enemy's face, looked down at Snape's crumpled frame on the snow-covered floor.

"_Finish him"_ Voldemort had said, seeing his anger, his hate, how it burned, but Harry wouldn't. He couldn't. He wanted to do one more foolish thing before he was killed. He swung his eyes up to Voldemorts's, and slimed, though his teeth were smashed out, and his body was weak from the Crucios.

"_I'm not your bitch, Voldie." _

Voldemort had smiled then, and slowly, methodically, brought Harry to the verge of death once more. Snape had lay there, unconscious, as Harry hair was burnt off, his toenails ripped out, his back flayed, until his lip was bitten right through from trying not to scream.

"Potter. What do you want?"

There is almost wariness in those eyes.

"Something to stop the memories. Anything you have. Please."

His voice nearly cracks on the 'please'. He nearly breaks down and cries, nearly clutches at the front of Snape's robes, but he doesn't. It does no good. Crying never does. He watches as Snape searches among the searches. He could have prayed. But there was no God for him.

"Here." Snape hands him a small vial. The liquid is black. Harry nearly checks to see if it's poison. He doesn't. Why would he care?

"Goodbye, Potter." There is something like sorrow in his eyes. Harry turns and leaves. All that was unsaid between them could remain unsaid. It doesn't matter. Anyone who would have cared about him is dead, now. He has no one to apologise to. He is just another veteran, a reminder that however evil Voldemort was, sometimes the more evil ones are the one who pretend to be doing good, that sometimes the people who are in power don't care about humanity, all they need is order. At whatever cost.

Well, Harry could pay. He would pay.

Hogwarts is a ruin now. Tattered curtains hang out of the windows; gaping holes are knocked out of the walls. It's now what the Muggles see. There are no more spells needed. The magic is gone. He climbs up the tallest tower, unstoppers the vial and stares at it.

"Sorry Mum. You didn't save me. I guess you thought you had, that I would live to be old, and happy, and loved. Well, you didn't. You wasted the effort. I guess you tried. That counts for something."

He drinks. He stops remembering. He smiles as the first flakes of snow start to fall. This place is so peaceful, so still, so sad. He knows nothing, fears nothing, is nothing. The snow is so pretty, he just wants to lie there forever, and let it cover him. It caresses his cheeks, it will be soft, warm, he decides. He lies down, wanting to be covered by the snow. It seems his only purpose, and with the determination he used to apply when he was still Harry, he stays there, as his lips turn white, then blue, then grey. It isn't so warm after all. But it doesn't matter. He's happy here anyway.

They bury him in a quiet churchyard, next to his parents. Only one man comes to his funeral. Only one man, a tall man, all black and white and harsh edges, who can only smile with an edge of bitterness.

He picks up some earth and drops it in. He stands there for a while, head bowed.

"You should have killed me, Potter. Maybe then you wouldn't have suffered so much. But I gave you what you wanted, in the end. Gave you the means to do one more foolish thing before you died. Rest in peace, boy."

He walks from the churchyard, an empty shell of a man, with black pools of ink for eyes. And when he drinks that night, he drinks for Harry Potter, defender of what turned out to be an utterly useless bunch of ideals. He drinks for all of them, the heroes, the villains. They all looked the same when they were dead.


End file.
